


Time Slows

by PercyCalypso



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Mercedes George Russell, Sakhir Grand Prix 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27954452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PercyCalypso/pseuds/PercyCalypso
Summary: A small, very short drabble about George Russell post-Sakhir Grand Prix 2020.
Kudos: 5





	Time Slows

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired to write in his headspace out of empathetic heartbreak following the events of the race. Much love to George, hope to see him on the podium soon. ♥  
> Originally posted to my tumblr, @percycalypso.

It’s as if time slowed down, motion at a quarter of real-time speed, laying back on the grass and taking a deep breath, hands raised and pressed against the sides of his head, hair plastered to his head with sweat, exhaustion weighing down each and every limb. He could feel his chest raise with inhalation, the warm night air filling his lungs and lifting the anvil on his chest toward the sky, slowly tumbling back down as he lets out the breath. Temples pounding, he let his eyes remain closed for one more moment–one long, eternal moment–before his long lashes untangled themselves and his eyes opened to the night sky.

The commotion came sweeping back as time resumed. Noise immeasurable, with voices cascading all around, the lights glaring and the sounds of clanging and equipment movement drilling into his inner ear. As he sat up, a towel was offered to him, and he took it gingerly, wiping his face on its soft surface and brushing it upward into his hair, ruffling and tussling it into a bit of a mess. The anvil had since slid off his chest but the weight and pain was still there.

Though his thoughts were messy and foggy, he knew he needed to get up off the grass, go shower, and get out there for the post-race interviews. Dreadful. Something that could have easily been a celebration had been taken out of his clutches–not once, not even twice, but three times. The third was the final, and he’d scored his points, but it had cost him more than he had gained.

No, no. That wasn’t true.

Exhaling and standing, a firm hand on his shoulder guided him over the pavement and his feet heavily lead him through the crowd. In a daze, he barely looked at the faces passing him by. God, he was tired.

Later, post shower, post interviews, and feeling the gravity of the racing world on his shoulders, George Russell was finally able to rest. At first it was fitful, he turned to one side, closed his eyes and took a deep breath, minutes passing with the imaginary ticking of a silent digital clock, which struck only five minutes past his last look when his eyes again opened. Squeezing his eyes closed with a frown, thoughts kept passing by wondering how events could have transpired differently if only he had made some changes, but the mistakes on his end were naught. _It wasn’t your fault,_ he knew, _you did everything right._ And yet… he still lost what would have been the sweetest victory and the most wonderful story in all of racing.

Eventually, though, the heaviness of his sore shoulders gave in, and as he rest on his back he felt as though he was sinking into the mattress, a hand resting on his chest as if to warm and calm his battered beating heart.


End file.
